Cold
by Shizuka no Taisho
Summary: Plucking a speck of glass from my hair, I pinch it tightly between my fingers. It doesn't cut through my gloves. Too bad. He would've been responsible. All my injuries, my "handicaps", as Roger might've called them…they're all Mello's fault. He's the cause. Always fucking him. And he won't get away with it. 'Cause I feel nothing for you, Mello, but cold. Pure, fucking cold Angst!


_Sorry guys. Got another depressing Matt story for you. This one doesn't have a real reason behind it though. I was listening to one of my play lists, the songs were depressing….yeah. Sometimes that's all it takes. Plus, :iconSoSeriouslySirius: was owed a fic for catching my kiriban, so I figured I'd finally crack down and write something for her. Sorry it's depressing dear, but uh-at least I wrote it? Yeah, I dunno. Hopefully you guys enjoy it. _

_And there's kind of a trend with these depressing stories. They're all based off music, and all of the songs begin with a C: Cold, Come Undone, Calling Out to You…..we'll just call this little saga Matt's Emo Days. Heh. M.E.D.S. How ironic. _

_**Music of Inspiration: **__** watch?v=Vrr3lRLjZ1Y**_

**Disclaimer: I don't own Death Note or Crossfade. Y'know, just throwing that out there. **

A bottle smashes above my head, glass raining down and littering my hair with iridescent sprinkles. I barely feel it, even when a few pieces cut my scalp and draw blood, thick and hot and trickling down the side of my cheek. It's nothing unusual for me. I've tasted pain a lot worse than this. But this is different. For one, I didn't cause it. I didn't do this to myself. There's no dull razor on the table, or a piece of glass smashed out of the bathroom cabinet. It's just me, my cigarette, the empty liquor bottles on the table, one now in pieces on the floor and in my hair…and him. The whole reason I started doing drugs, picking up strangers. Mello.

I wanted to forget his very existence, have some reprieve from the fucked up thoughts and delusions. I drank my weight in liquor, trying to mute my sorrow, just like I sampled the whole spectrum of drugs while trying to block out my nightmares. But I was an idiot. I thought my situation couldn't get any worse. Tch. That was pretty stupid of me. Back then, I had it a lot easier. When Mello wasn't here, I only imagined him. Just harmless delusions….uh, so to speak. Now though? He's not a delusion. He's in my apartment, every single fucking day. He _lives _with me! The guy that made me into this-this thing that I am now. I can't escape him. I can't forget! How could I, when he's always right there? How can I drown my sorrows when I have to come face to face with them every morning?

Plucking a speck of glass from my hair, I pinch it tightly between my fingers. It doesn't cut through my gloves. Too bad. He would've been responsible. All my injuries, my "handicaps", as Roger might've called them…they're all Mello's fault. He's the cause. Always fucking him.

You know, why he came back is still a mystery to me. Hell, I don't even know how he found me! One day I was picking broken glass off the bathroom floor, counting out funds for my next stash, and the next I'm watching Mello come stumbling through my doorway, all bandaged and teetering on his feet, like he was gonna keel over at any minute. And he looked like hell. He was covered in bandages, with lots of puss and blood seeping through. Gross shit. His clothes were nice, if you looked past the burns, grime and dust. Fancy, professionally made. Probably several grand. 'Course, that raised its own slew of problems. You had to be pretty loaded to own clothes like that, or know the right people. Which was Mello? If the former, then why didn't he pay off some doctor to take care of him? If the latter…where were they?

Whatever. I know enough by now to get by, and it doesn't change anything. Point is, he came back, and at first I had this small hope that he was gonna apologize. Dunno about you, but I'd be pretty repentant if I got half of my goddamn face blown off. But nooo. Never Mello. He was about as sorry as Hitler was when he started killing off the Jews. Yeah. Pretty sad. Now that I think on it though, I doubt Mello even knows what the word "sorry" means. It's one thing to look up a definition in the dictionary, or have the entire thing memorized, but it's a WHOLE other to actually experience it. _Show_ it. For all his genius, Mello's still pretty fucking oblivious. Just a kid in grown up clothes, trying to take on the world. I didn't mind so much when we were young.

Now though? …I'm not sure if I care at all.

"Matt!"

Another bottle hits the wall behind me, and I can't help but make a face as it shatters and dusts my shoulders and hair with even more broken glass. Like I needed any more cuts. So what if I can't feel them? That's not a huge surprise anyway, considering the shit I pumped into my veins earlier. But being drugged up doesn't make me Superman, and it sure as hell doesn't stop the blood from rolling down the back of my neck, soaking the collar of my shirt. "…shit." Grimacing, I touch the spot, following the trail of warmth up to my crown and-yep. There's another cut. Not too big, but you bleed more when you're on drugs. Or is that when you're drunk? Eh, doesn't matter. I've had plenty of both tonight. Kinda where the bottles came from.

Across from me, Mello is shaking and looking like he's ready to implode. The guy seriously needs to learn how to control his temper. But I guess that's just wishful thinking, eh? You can't teach an old dog new tricks. "Are you going to pay attention to me now?!" His blue eyes are cold, angry. Nothing like the eyes I remember from my childhood. They're as unfeeling as I am, if that's possible. "Matt!"

"I'm not deaf, Mello. I can hear you." Dropping my hand and ignoring the blood staining my fingertips, I pick up one of the few bottles that's survived Mello's wrath and take a swig. More out of habit than an actual need, but the taste of cheap booze is familiar. Lots of things are familiar though. Like Mello. Even with his leather clothes and half torched face, he's still the guy I grew up with.

…ha. I _wish_ I could say that anyway. This guy may share Mello's body, but the Mello that I loved and adored is gone. The one in front of me is a cold, anger fueled hellion, and I'd be lying to myself if I said that he didn't scare me a little. Because he does. When we were kids, I knew that at some level, some deep, still loving part of his mind, I was important to Mello. He cared for me. We were-friends. That's long gone now. There's nothing left of those emotions. Mello made his deal with the devil, and now I have to put up with this asshole as a result. Because I can't just tell him to get out. Oh no. Not possible. Wanna know why?

'Cause as much of a bastard as he is, I still love him. He's the only friend I've ever had…the only guy I've ever loved. All I ever wanted.

Giving a quiet snort, I wipe my hand clean on my jeans. Love. It's a shitty situation. Because like it or not, there's a catch when it comes to love. It goes hand in hand with hate. A lot of times you can't have one without the other, but in most cases I've ever heard about, one emotion overpowers the other. You practically forget all about the other. And in my case, I've got a lot more hate than love to throw around. A long time ago that wouldn't be true. A long time ago, I'd still be madly in love with my best friend, wanting nothing more than to be in his arms, never letting go. Tch. A long time ago, I wouldn't be doing every illegal drug in the book, or drinking so many bottles of alcohol a day that my kidneys are close to bursting. They should be anyway. I have pretty rotten luck though, so I'll probably last a damn good time before my body gives in to the tar and poisoning. But that's me. I'm a dog that keeps getting kicked while he's down, then gets back up again anyway.

Not a very good existence, I know. My life's full of things that aren't good though. It wasn't a good idea to start doing drugs to forget my past, or to have sex with all those strangers, all in an attempt to quit remembering what could've been. It wasn't a good idea to OD that night, and wake up on the bathroom floor in a puddle of blood and vomit. And it definitely wasn't a good idea to let Mello back into my life. I mean, I guess I can't really blame myself. Wouldn't you take a chance to get revenge on your worst enemy? Not that Mello's an enemy or anything. He's just….the cause. Of everything. And him stumbling through my door was the chance of a lifetime. The chance…..for revenge. Justice.

"Bullshit! You were ignoring me, you ass! On purpose!"

Mello's anger fueled cries sound like nails on a chalkboard. Grimacing, I level him with a sarcastic smile and start picking more glass out of my hair and clothes. "Yeah. What if I was? Gonna throw more bottles at me? There's an extra stash in the fridge, when you run out. I didn't do as much drinking today. Sorry." It's not hard to pick out the mockery in that apology, even for a dick like Mello. I do it n purpose. I want him to get angry, use his fists. Seeing him like that-it feels like nice. The guilty getting their just desserts, y'know? He made my life shitty, he fucked me up, so now here's my chance to throw it all back in his face. Mello hates the drugs, you see, and the constant drinking. He hates what I've become, if you wanna get down to the nitty, gritty details. And that makes me happy. He can hate it-me…all he wants. It's HIS fault.

As always, he doesn't seem to know the thoughts going on in my jumbled head. Probably better that way. Or maybe he does, since he just gives me this dirty look and storms out, kicking aside one of my computers as he goes. Let him. I've got plenty more, and it's his own fault if he loses any important data on it. I didn't ask him to come back, just like I didn't ask him to rope me into his stupid Kira case.

Oh yeah. Forgot to mention that. Aside from needing a place to lick his wounds, Mello came to me for "help". By help, I mean enlisting me as his little tech stooge. I'm supposed to be background Intel, monitoring a few different people. Keeping an eye on things, so to speak. Easy stuff. I could do it all in my sleep. But you know what? I don't really want to. Did I tell him that? Fuck no. Do I look like an idiot? I've done a shitty job with my life, sure, but I don't feel like having it end prematurely. And Mello seems like the type to put a bullet in some guy's skull to shut him up. Tie up loose ends. So I said ok; I'd help him. In repayment, he has to deal with my issues. Every day, he gets to look at me, see what's come of the guy he abandoned, left behind like a stray mutt you get too tired of feeding table scraps. Every fucking day, he gets that shit rubbed in his face. I hope he hates it. If he even cares. I like to think he does. That under all that coldness, and the rage….there's still something of my best friend left. Enough for him to feel regret, and suffer as I have. I'm allowed a pipe dream once or twice in my life, right? Yeah. I think so. Could be me getting my hopes up, but I don't care. Whether he cares or not, I've made it my unofficial job in life to fuck _his _up.

So fine Mello. You want a lackey? I'll do your goddamn dirty work for you. But guess what, you fucking sonofabitch? I'm gonna rub it in your scarred face! Watch me do my drugs, drink the booze, sleep with people that aren't you. I'll fight through my memories of you, push away the happy times and reasons behind my delusions, and I'll fight. If it means getting my justice, fine. Bring on the suffering. I hope it becomes palpable so you can choke on it. It'd serve you right. Because this is YOUR fault. Yours! You left me, made me turn to that shit, all so I could forget you. Then just when my guard was down, you show up again. Really? Gonna pull that crap on me? Screw you. You can go jump off a bridge for all I care! But not yet. Not before I show you how it feels. You're gonna understand by the time it's all over. I don't know if it'll be your stupid case, or some other screwed up logic that gets you killed, and I really don't care. If you die, it's not gonna be before I show you what it feels like. You're going to suffer, Mello.

Go ahead, storm out the door. Make it rattle in its frame. Throw bottles at me, cut me. Hurt me. I've been through it all before. And by the time I'm done with you….so will have you. For all the pain you caused me-all the memories, delusions. All the fucked up times where I sat on the floor, thinking about you. Drugged up, drunk, but still thinking. _Remembering_. You won't get away with it. I'm not the same guy I was back at Wammy's, Mello. I'm hurt, confused, but mostly….angry. And angry people always want revenge. I'm going to get it too. You'll know how I felt when I'm done. You'll know how I feel, every time I look at your face, those too blue eyes. And I hope you freeze, you bastard. You have this coming, and I'm gonna look forward to letting you see the screwed up side of me, full force.

You don't understand it yet, but you will. Oh, you will. And I won't be sorry. 'Cause I feel nothing for you, Mello, but _cold_. Pure, fucking cold.


End file.
